Flight
by through-the-eye-of-a-needle
Summary: What the Gillan children get up to during World War Two. Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On universe.
1. Chapter 1

**I. Sylvie**

It is so peaceful that you wouldn't think there is a war on. Out here, in the patchwork embrace of the countryside, life goes on as it does every day. The cows still need milking, the crops need sowing, the vegetable garden still needs weeding. The only sign of the war currently tearing France apart is the clack-clack-clack of the doodlebugs high in the air with trails of exhaust fumes falling behind them, on their way to London.

Sylvie has never been gladder of her Ned's insane plan to move into the countryside five years ago as she sits in the rose arbour, watching her children run shrieking about the lawn with the three evacuees they've taken in. When the kids arrived at the nearby town train station, they had all been such skinny little things, and all from the same street in the blitzed East End, but she's loved watching the colour bloom in their cheeks like a flower unfurling its petals in the springtime, loved the way they've become rounder, less angular, the half-starved look disappearing with plates piled high with food from the garden.

(They're lucky, to have the garden. Rationing hasn't been quite so bad.)

So she sits, and watches, and when her husband comes home that evening and they say grace over the meal, she gives thanks for the people in her life.

War is a cruel beast that likes to drive wedges between people, but in her family, it has a funny way of doing the exact opposite.

* * *

**A/N **Last bit in the 'Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On' universe. Something I dreamed up whilst on holiday. Enjoy! (Reviews are golden sparkles and sunshine, so click that little button!) N xxx


	2. Chapter 2

**II – Audrey**

It's odd, performing in a tent instead of the stage of a concert hall. But then again, the concert hall has been blown to bits by the Blitz, and now lies in a graceless heap of bricks and broken glass that catches the light and throws it across the street. The piano is nothing like the shining black baby grand that lounged luxuriously like a sleek, pampered cat in the warm-up room above the stage. This is old, battered, carted up and down a war-torn country, but still in tune.

When she pads across the stage in her ruffled, floral blouse and sensible skirt, it is nothing like the silk creation that looked to have been sewn from glimmering, frost-laden spiders' webs that graced her slender frame on the night of her debut. The audience is weary soldiers rather than fashionable couple in smart-pressed evening wear, the light is from yellow lamps rather than a glittering, crystal chandelier. There are no other performers, none of the famous singers that usually preceded her act nor the jazz band that came after.

But the pile of sheet music in her arms is the same. The quick, confident steps across to the piano, the way she sits, straight-backed with her fingers poised on the keys like birds about the take flight are identical to how it used to be. She starts to play the first piece in her repertoire – Clair de Lune – and the hush that shrouds the audience is exactly the same.

And when she finishes the concert, the applause – and the feeling that comes along with it – is greater than anything she's ever known, swooping down on her like a tidal wave and washing her away.


	3. Chapter 3

**III – Jack**

The bullets rattle over his head, and then he is tumbling out of the sky in a spinning maelstrom of army-green wings and hellfire, toppling towards the green fields. The flames are scorching, burning, and terror is rising in his throat like vomit as his hands work at his parachute, and then he's bailing out into the freezing air, floating gently to the earth that rises up to meet him.

There is an explosion, and he slips out of consciousness.

* * *

He wakes to the rustle of sheets and two ovals blurring in his line of sight. He blinks, and they wobble into focus. His mother has tears rolling down her cheeks like rain. "You're awake," she whispers. His father doesn't say anything, but his eyes are fixed on Jack's, hope and something else staring out of them.

"I know," he croaks.

"When we got the message…" his mother grips the hand that lies limp across the blanket. Her shoulders tremble. "You promised you'd keep safe."

"Ma, I'm a fighter pilot. There's no such thing as safe."

His mother cries harder, turning her face into his father's shoulder; he presses a kiss to the top of her head. "You're alive," he says fiercely "You're alive, and that's all that matters."

* * *

When he finally gets back into his beloved Spitfire again, it is like an awakening. The world is at his feet as the squadron roars down the runway, the predatory guard of four lumbering bombers. The sky unfolds itself before him and the sea is a shimmering mirage of silver forty thousand feet below.

He has never felt so alive in his life.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV – George**

He'd always planned to follow in his father's footsteps, but it had to be put on hold because of the damned war. But now it's over, he got out of it scarred up but alive, and he's achieved his BA in Medicine. A first, just like his father got all those years ago.

His girlfriend, Rose, managed to get a second, and they stand together on the lawn in front of the main building of the university of Edinburgh in their sweeping black gowns, families and friends crowing around them and congratulations filling the air like dandelion fluff.

He looks over towards Rose, clinging onto her friends and laughing, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, her wildly curly hair tumbling down her back like a waterfall. The ring is burning a hole in the pocket of his trousers, but he forces himself to forget about it. The war has taught him to grasp every moment and live in it forever, and with Rose's smile like the sun, his mother's arms around him and his father looking ready to burst with pride, he _knows _he couldn't be happier.


End file.
